by Ashley Slupski

We came from a town near the coast. In summers, Abuela and I sat on porches and ate kiwis from her garden. She dipped her's in yogurt I ate mine whole; skin and all.

She told me she will see the Savior before she dies and reminded me to ask Jesus to bless my family before I slept. I was too embarrassed by her passion I didn't admit at Christmas we had no tree. We had a menorah. And my mother never spoke in her native tongue.

My sister didn't stay with us long, passed busily through gates with boys. Abuela explained, "in America, skin is currency. The more you avoid the sun, the richer you will be" placing her hat onto her head and whispering that she loved me better.

The only time we visited that country was after her death. We planted a tree in the garden to mark her grave. I imagined her underneath, The skin: brown and hairy and the life I once kissed.